


An Act Hard To Follow

by butterflyeffect404



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, alternate universe - very late 1800s, but expect other period-typical things, cause thats gonna be there at some point, ill add more tags if i can think of stuff that makes sense, ill do my best but dont expect a lot of period-typical expressions and words, im not too sure what to put here, like racism and homophobia, lucy is a sweet lady and ricky loves her to death also as always, some mafia in the mix and theyre important but wont have as much focus as the others, sorry if the tags are confusing, the greatest showman au, there will be some of those, tinsley is a playwright and also a sadsack as always, very likely some, violence and blood warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyeffect404/pseuds/butterflyeffect404
Summary: C. C. Tinsley is a successful playwright haunted by ghosts he's determined to keep alive. He writes with the same urgency as one eats when they're hungry or sleeps when they're tired.Ricky Goldsworth is a young man who spends his time taking care of his ill mother. As happy as he is just being in her company, deep down he wants to see the world and be seen by it.Benjamin "Banjo" McClintock is an entrepreneur with a fascination for the unusual and a passion for business. Some could say he also has a certain way with words.And then one day, all three paths converged.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 25
Kudos: 18





	1. Routine

**Author's Note:**

> hum hello everyone! so ive been writing for a while now, but this is my first fic and also first tinsworth fic!  
> so uhhh be gentle, i suppose? but dont be afraid to voice your opinions and feelings! safe space, yall <3  
> well, the main ideas for this fic are mostly planned out, i really just need to get to them lol. so i set up this account to post this fic hoping that it would motivate me to keep writing it, so i reaLLY hope you guys enjoy it! xx
> 
> also im still learning how the website works so if yall have any tips and stuff those would be greatly appreciated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the latest play and the party that usually follows, Tinsley fights to push away a realisation that seems to haunt him as much as his ghosts.
> 
> Ricky, on the other hand, fights to push away the sadness that comes with his mother's worsening health.

The actors freeze, and the act is over. No more acts will follow. The crimson grand drape is drawn across the stage, its pleated halves meeting in the middle. They shield the cast from the audience as they scramble to either side of the stage so they can enter it again – now in front of the curtain – and bow. The theatre-goers jump to their feet when the playwright steps onto the stage to take his place in the centre, the actors parting to include him in their midst, bright smiles and brighter eyes as they take in the familiar sight. The deafening applaud engulfs C. C. Tinsley from all sides, erupting from the seats that extend endlessly in front of him, from the sides, from the galleries up above, even from backstage, as the rest of his employees take to revelling in the aftermath of yet another successful performance.

He’s seen it all before.

Those seating closest to the stage throw flowers onto it in a demonstration of enjoyment, and admiration. The applaud has yet to die down. Their smiles have yet to falter and vanish, allowing neutral expressions to take over their faces; it didn’t seem like something that would happen any time soon. The flowers fall at the actors’ feet, at Tinsley’s feet – some even striking him in the legs with feather-like weight – but he doesn’t look down.

He’s seen it all before.

There are four empty seats in the front row, directly lined up with the centre of the stage. There are always four empty seats in the middle of the front row. Tinsley’s eyes float around the entire theatre, coming back to the four empty seats time and time again. It’s almost as if he can see them, their smiles, their eyes shining with pride, the laughter that seemed to always fill his chest more than anything he wrote ever could, no matter how intricate every character, how careful every scene, how perfect every single word. Because these four smiles were so simple and so powerful.

The actors themselves have taken to clapping, thanking the audience, congratulating each other, congratulating Tinsley. He can’t hear them; well, he can, but he’s not listening. The sound is numb, drowning, a repetition, again, again, again.

He’s heard it all before.

His eyes land on the four empty seats at the front again, and his senses shift back into focus. He has a purpose. He does this for a reason. He continues to do this for a reason. The show must go on.

* * *

The party after the play, although an empty event to some – and Tinsley would admit that yes, more often than not the display of wealth and luxury seemed to cover up just how shallow these snobs could be – very frequently managed to restore the ghost of a spring to Tinsley’s step. These parties reminded him that he was successful, that the people enjoyed the material he wrote, though he had trouble believing they understood why he did it all. Then again, he didn’t need them to. They didn’t need to understand why, they just needed to keep it alive. Living. Breathing, and moving. Alive.

As always, he had quickly given up on trying to make his way across the large room, instead staying in place as he was swarmed by respectable couples from even more respectable families, fancy-clad ladies adorned in jewellery and delicate hairdos, men dressed in flawless suits with flawless moustaches and flawless manners. It was routine by now.

“Mr Tinsley! It was wonderful, the story you presented tonight.” Tinsley was approached by a woman in a navy-blue, off-shoulder dress, her honey-blonde hair kept in place by a neat braid that draped over her shoulder and chest.

“Thank you, Mrs Frazier. But really, the actors are the stars here.” He placed a meaningless kiss on the back of a gloved hand. “Where is Mr Frazier, if I may ask?”

The woman retracted her hand, her expression changing into something between disgust and annoyance. “Phillip had plans to attend another… cultural event tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“He’s becoming much too curious for his own good, I’m afraid.”

“Should I be worried he’s no longer interested in my art?” Tinsley flashed her a playful smile, in an attempt to lift the mood.

She flashed back one of her own. “Not in the slightest, Mr Tinsley. It is, as you said, art.” Suddenly, her face lit up and she waved at someone across the room. Tinsley looked over his shoulder at the approaching young man, donning a suit that matched the woman’s dress. “My son William has been dying for a chance to talk to you, Mr Tinsley. He admires you very much.”

Tinsley raised his eyebrows an inch, pretending that was a sentence he’d seldom heard, and extended a hand for young William to shake. He had his mother’s eyes, though his hair wasn’t as dark. William shook the playwright’s hand eagerly.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Tinsley.”

“I’m flattered, Mr Frazier.”

“Please, William is enough.” Tinsley nodded, taking mental note to start addressing the man by his first name. He wasn’t sure if the boy had requested the change in order to somehow distance himself from the family name – his father’s name – or to appear friendlier and more approachable in Tinsley’s eyes.

“Was this your first play?”

“Oh, not at all. I’ve attended countless ones, though I have no choice but to admit that yours have been, by far, the best.”

“He started dabbling in playwriting because of you, you know,” Mrs Frazier chimed in, pride lacing her voice as she threw a look at her son.

“And how has he faired so far?”

“Oh, it’s much more than dabbling at this point. It’s very much something I’d like to pursue.”

“That’s fantastic.”

William looked at his mother as if seeking confirmation that this conversation was really happening. If Tinsley hadn’t been in this exact situation several times in the past already, he would consider it endearing.

The boy’s eyes shone like gems. “The realism in your plays, the way you portray your characters… It’s almost as if I know them, like they’re real people, and I’m witnessing their real lives, and not a play.”

For the first time in a long time, Tinsley wasn’t sure whether he liked that idea or not. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for that, either. He decided to brush it off. He ended the interaction short, on the pretext that he needed a drink. Giving William a handshake and his mother another fleeting kiss to the back of her hand, Tinsley made his way out to the balcony instead. All the attendees mostly acquainted with each other, there was little to no chance of anyone having noticed that he had lied; they had already moved on, suddenly quite wrapped up indeed in their own conversations about the superior quality of their upper-class lives. Besides, disappearing into the crowd wasn’t unusual coming from Tinsley; he was already sort of a mystic figure anyway.

Tinsley unbuttoned his overcoat and jacket, and leaned on his forearms on the stone railing. With a soft sigh, he looked up at the bright full moon, surrounded by all the stars. He ran a hand through his unruly hair when he felt the night’s light breeze caressing it.

“Away from the all the praise? By yourself? How uncharacteristic of you, Tinsley,” a woman’s posh British accent pulled him out of his thoughts with mock-surprise, the smile on her lips clear in her voice. Tinsley looked over his shoulder at her as she walked over to him, sending her a small smile of his own.

“Once you’ve talked to one of them, you’ve talked to all of them.” He watched her as she leaned her lower back against the railing, her hands propped up either side of her for support. “Besides, you’re out here as well, Holly.”

She looked to the side to meet his eyes, then looked forward. She pushed her wire-framed glasses up her nose, watching the party for a few moments. Ultimately, her gaze returned to him, accompanied by a nod. “So it would seem”. She drew her eyebrows together lightly, her slate-grey eyes studying his face. “You should stop, you know.”

Tinsley raised an eyebrow. “Stop what?”

Holly gave him a long look, turning around to lean on her forearms like him. Dark, brown-auburn strands that had fallen loose from her high bun now framed her face, their tips barely brushing her shoulders. She sighed. “I understand why you do it, but it’ll drive you mad in the end, Tinsley.”

It was clear he couldn’t evade the topic by playing dumb. Tinsley ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, letting it rest over his nape, the other hanging limp over the stone railing. “The end is still far enough away.”

Holly rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. She straightened back up, moving away from the railing. She leaned towards Tinsley, as if to tell him a secret. “Frazier’s boy keeps going on about how you admire his determination to pursue a career, by the way.”

Tinsley huffed a laugh, shaking his head, feeling the tension lift a little. “Is he now?” He turned his gaze to Holly. She threw up her hands lazily as if saying “Apparently,” and walked leisurely back inside. Tinsley draped his arms over the railing again, linking his fingers loosely. He observed the nightlife keeping the streets awake.

* * *

Ricky was no stranger to the odd looks thrown at him by vendors and buyers alike. He could almost hear the thoughts in their heads as he walked across the street market, small under the silent, subtle scrutiny – wordless comments on his full lips, his olive skin, his tell-tale eyes. A curious mix of fire and kindness in said eyes the cherry on top of a cake made of how much he didn’t belong.

He carried with him a bag with fruit, bought with borrowed money. _Offered_ would describe it more accurately, but Ricky insisted he would pay her back whenever he had the chance, and he was intent on keeping that promise even though she kept insisting he didn’t have to. He found it unfair not to repay Francesca’s gestures; they had known each other since before their teenage years, and she had always helped him and Lucy through rough times. Fran would share with them the scraps of food and clothes and what little money she received from her employers; whatever they found it in their rotten hearts to give to her, she would split with the two of them whenever she visited.

He stepped into the small, cosy little house Fran’s parents had so kindly welcomed them into all those years ago, before their untimely deaths. At the end of the short hallway stood the kitchen, behind a pair of thin doors. Ricky made his way to them with a chirpy, “I’m back from the market with some fresh fruit, _mamá_.”

A stifled cough. “That’s lovely.” He heard her from upstairs just before the kitchen’s doors fell victim to gravity and closed by themselves with a quiet squeak. He placed the bag of fruit softly on the table, a sigh escaping his lips as his gaze floated downward.

He came into her room a couple minutes later, holding a glass of orange juice. The room had about just enough space to fit a single bed, a chair and a small table, on which sat an oil lamp and a little pile of books. Lucy sat on the bed, by the window, back against the wall, a worn book in her fragile hands and a blanket over her legs. Hair as black as Ricky’s draped over her right shoulder and chest in a loose braid. She looked tired, but the sight of her son never failed to light up her face, and she smiled when he approached her.

Ricky grabbed the chair from the table and sat beside the bed. “Just how many times will you read and re-read that book?” He smiled as Lucy placed said book next to her on the bed, accepting the glass of juice from him.

“Good stories deserve to be revisited.” She sipped, eyes closed in delight. The glass was nearly half empty when Lucy found herself thrown into a coughing fit, a hand covering her mouth, her eyes now squeezed shut. In the blink of an eye, the glass was out of her hand and put down on the table unceremoniously; with second-nature reflexes, Ricky reached for one of Lucy’s handkerchiefs from inside the ajar drawer of the table and held it to the lower half of her face before the crimson liquid could stain anything. He rubbed a comforting hand on her back as she struggled through the coughs. Once she managed to calm down and catch her breath, Ricky helped her straighten up and dried the blood off her lips. He handed the glass back to her with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Lucy muttered with the faintest smile and eyes that itched to apologise instead.

Ricky stood up and put the chair back in its place. He handed Lucy her spare handkerchief, just in case, and pressed a feather-like kiss to the top of her head. Now to rinse the other one while it was still wet. Preferably as quickly as he could, so he could continue to watch over Lucy until Fran came over later in the day, during her shopping trip. It wasn’t exactly smart of her to be out of her employer’s house for too long, but she told Ricky she would drop by anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had some issues with learning my way around editing here on ao3 BUT i'm very excited about this fic so please feel free to leave kudos and a comment if you've enjoyed this first chapter! <3 xx


	2. Precursor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley continues to ruin his sleep schedule with his writing.
> 
> Fran breaks some bad news to Ricky.

The manor stood at a thirty-minute carriage drive away from the Grand Theatre in a sheltered, quiet part of town. The cobbled streets gave way to a large gravel and dirt path that snaked around countless tall, beautiful trees; at the end of the path was a house of respectable size, as were those belonging to upper-class townspeople. It stood protected by imposing iron gates, the metal weaved around the smooth bars in intricate patterns; regardless of how many times one saw the manor, it seemed there was a new detail to be discovered every time. Surrounded by splashes of autumn’s wonderful oranges and reds and yellows, the view of the manor from the gravel path was like a painted landscape, worthy of being hung on a wall inside a whimsical wooden frame.

The moon shone bright, high up and alone in the vast, inky blackness of the night sky. Nocturnal critters went about their business and an owl or two could be heard hooting from the trees. A light breeze came through the open window, strong enough to wave the curtain like water, but not harsh enough to disturb the papers on the desk. Illuminated by a kerosene lamp, ink was scratched into paper, roughly, incompletely. A low groan. The paper was balled up and chucked across the room to join an ever-growing pile of balled-up pieces of paper with unfinished pages, unfinished paragraphs, unfinished sentences, unfinished words.

Three light knocks on the door. Light, but confident, like they belonged.

The hand holding a fountain pen stopped in its tracks, hovering barely a hair above the paper, waiting as the holder re-read the sentence over and over. “Yes?”

The door to the study was opened silently as the paper was ruined into an ugly ball. “Your tea, sir,” came the voice, a voice belonging to an older gentleman, monotonous in the most harmless of ways. The butler, a man in his early sixties with salt and pepper hair, donned the appropriate attire, in a black-and-white colour scheme; a white shirt was covered by a black waistcoat and a black tailed coat, with a white bowtie tying the look together. His hazel-green eyes were the only splash of colour. In a white-gloved hand, he held a silver tray, the other holding a kerosene lamp of his own. His eyes met those of the man sitting at the desk, his left arm propped up and ready to toss the scrunched paper across the room without care. He stopped at the last second, staring for a moment.

Tinsley let his shoulders slump with a weary sigh, placing the ball on the desk along with his fountain pen. “Right.” He rested the hand that previously held the paper ball on the desk, his other hand raking through his hair as he closed his eyes for a moment.

The butler spared a glance at the mountain of scrunched paper littering the room, before moving his gaze back to the man sitting at the ornate desk. Through the open door, the sound of a grandfather clock ticking, and ticking, and ticking poked the lingering silence like an upset child taking jabs at their food with a fork. Just how late was it?

He took the single-word response as permission to step into the study. A couple firm steps and he was in front of the desk, momentarily placing his lamp on the floor to free his hand. He took the cup of tea from the tray and placed it down after Tinsley cleared the space for it. He added a spoonful of honey and was about to stir it too when Tinsley stopped him by lifting up his hand, wordlessly telling him he would like to do it himself.

“Thank you, Mayor.” Tinsley stirred his tea slowly, staring into it with unfocused eyes.

The Mayor gave a single nod, picking up the lamp from the floor next to him, and turned on his heel to leave. He had almost made it to the door when Tinsley spoke again.

“What time is it?”

The Mayor turned back around to face him, movements fluid like second-nature, and not an inch too much or too little; once again, left hand holding the tray and right hand holding the kerosene lamp above his waist line. He set the lamp down on the drum table near the door and reached into the pocket on the inside of his coat; he pulled out his pocket watch and clicked it open.

“It’s currently 2:46, sir.”

Tinsley sighed into his tea, sipping it afterwards. “Thank you.”

Silence befell them again, the only sound the echoing _tic toc_ of the grandfather clock downstairs. The Mayor put his pocket watch away, observing the playwright. His gaze was stuck to all the scrunched up balls of paper he threw from his desk over the course of who-knows-how-many hours he’d been stuck inside his study; however, he seemed to be lost in thought. Lost in memory, perhaps.

“If I may, sir…?” The Mayor started, careful. Tinsley’s gaze flashed to the butler, and he sipped his tea. He wanted him to continue, so the Mayor did. “I believe you should rest. Perhaps a fresher state of mind will bring about your inspiration,” he suggested. His posture did not falter, and his gaze did not leave the other man, but his voice was laced with an underlying kindness that Tinsley appreciated. He’d always appreciated it, especially when tired.

Tinsley’s eyes moved from the pile to his tea, back to the pile, and back to the tea, and finally landed on the Mayor’s, a nod following suit. A small smiled tried to pull the corners of his lips upwards, but there was no strength to maintain it, exhaustion seeping through with little to no resistance. “You’re probably right.”

“Should one of the maids be sent up here?” The Mayor spoke about the pile of paper balls without gesturing to it, or even looking over at it.

A soft shake of a messy-haired head. “No, I’ll take care of that. You can go. Thank you, again.”

“Of course, sir.” The Mayor nodded once, a firm one, and left, closing the door silently behind him.

Tinsley leaned back in his chair, finally relaxing a bit. He curled the fingers of both hands around his cup of tea and continued taking sips, his gazing lingering over the paper mountain, but eventually moving to rest on the window and its flowing curtain, soft, ghostly. The Mayor was right; Tinsley knew he was. Yet, he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop himself from giving it his all and more when working on his plays; they had to be perfect. He had to impress them. He had to make sure he was writing stories they would enjoy, stories that would make them smile, stories that were compelling, stories that were memorable. They had to be perfect.

After finishing his tea, he put the cup down and stood up from the desk, making his way to the mound of discarded pages. He stared down at them, a neutral sigh escaping his lips. Then, he bent down and started picking them up one by one, smoothing them out and stacking them up on top of each other in the space he had cleared for the tray earlier. Maybe something he’d written in one of those could actually be salvaged, or repurposed, but that was a task for tomorrow-Tinsley to be occupied with.

Today-Tinsley was going to allow himself some sleep, for once.

* * *

Birds chirped away outside as golden sunrays bathed the house through every window they could touch, like a soft kiss pressed to bare skin. This would be one of the last days of the year where the sun would feel so warm, and not cold and distant, merely a source of light. Ricky was glad he was able to enjoy it with Lucy. Even if he now had to help her move around, as she was no longer strong enough to get out of bed and move around on her own. He wasn’t quite sure just exactly was afflicting her, but it worried him, and it saddened him. Oh, how it saddened him. Seeing her smile did make him feel better, just as it had for as long as he could remember, but it was becoming more and more bittersweet.

Lucy walked into the kitchen, her arm in Ricky’s, and sat down gingerly at the worn-down table, softly patting down her light-blue dress, smoothing its wrinkles over her thighs before taking hold of the chair and having her son help her scoot closer to the table. “What will we be having for breakfast today? Smells heavenly,” she smiled down at her hair as her fingers danced through it, weaving it into the usual braid she liked to sport.

“Well, your favourite, of course,” Ricky turned around from the countertop and placed two plates on the table, each with two eggs and a few strips of bacon. “But that’s not all,” he added as he placed on the table a third, larger plate with bread slices on it, as well as a small jar containing jam. “I got this little thing from the market yesterday, and I thought, what better time to crack it open?” He knew his smile only mirrored Lucy’s as her face brightened and she giggled at the silly tone he had laced his voice with. Grabbing silverware for the both of them, Ricky sat at the opposite end of the square wooden table, ready to dig into his breakfast.

Throughout breakfast, he noticed how slow she’d become at picking up her fork and lifting it towards her mouth, he noticed how strained her arm looked when she insisted on picking up her glass by herself, he noticed how sunken and tired her eyes looked under the morning sunlight, but he didn’t mention any of it. Not once. He just ate his breakfast and smiled at her when she smiled at him and laughed with her like they’d always done, like everything was fine. “Fine” how she’d say she felt whenever he asked. “Fine” how he desperately wanted her to be.

* * *

A quiet afternoon spent reading in each other’s company was heaven on earth for the Goldsworths. Only a knock on the front door would pluck them from their little paradise. They looked up at each other from their respective books, exchanging a confused look.

“Expecting someone?” Lucy chuckled.

Ricky rolled his eyes in amusement. “No. Maybe it’s Fran?”

“Was she supposed to come over today?”

With a shake of his head, Ricky stood up. “Not that I recall.” He stepped out of the room and made his way down the stairs and across the short hallway to the front door in less than a minute. He cracked open the door and, sure enough, there she was, standing on the other side with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

“Hey,” he tried a smile.

She peeked inside behind him. “Is your mother awake? We need to talk.”

“She is, but, uh, we can talk outside. Here, on the porch.” A nod from Fran. “Give me a minute, I’ll grab some chairs for us.” Another nod and Ricky left her by the door, walking back inside. Making a quick detour, he headed upstairs.

“Who’s the mystery knocker?”

“Oh, it really was Fran. There’s something she wants to tell me, so I’m going to go back down to the porch. Just wanted to let you know everything’s fine.”

“Alright, don’t keep the girl waiting,” Lucy smiled as he kissed her cheek and hurried back downstairs towards the kitchen.

In the blink of an eye, Ricky reappeared at the front door, each hand holding a chair. Fran took one of the chairs from him and stepped back, allowing him to come through the door and turn to his right, setting down his chair by the window and taking a seat. Fran, in turn, set her chair down next to his, taking her time to sit down. They angled their chairs towards each other.

Ricky crossed his legs in a figure four, resting his forearms on his thighs. “Well? What’s the matter?”

Fran’s face was turned away from him, towards the street. For a few long moments, she observed the people that walked by, carrying on with their day, their errands, their strolls. She took a deep breath, let it out completely, then turned to look at him.

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s… fine.” Ricky felt as if she had brought Lucy up to avoid asking what she really meant to ask, but he decided to play along anyway. For now. “Well, she’s fine _right now_ ,” he gestured at the house, in the vague direction of his mother’s room. “But she’s getting worse. It’s too clear to deny.” He sighed.

“How much have you managed to save up so far?”

Ricky’s gaze drifted up and to the side as he did the math in his head, stroking his stubbled jaw with the back of his fingers. Ultimately, he decided the number was irrelevant. He shook his lead slightly, looking back at Fran. “Not much. Not enough for any meds, anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think what she needs is an actual doctor…”

The tiniest of sighs escaped Fran as her eyes dropped to her lap, where she had placed a hand atop the other. She was fidgeting now, playing with her fingers as her eyes flickered from her hands to her arms, to either side of her, to her knees, to his knees, to his feet. She seemed to be looking for something, for words, for courage.

Ricky now understood that there was something just below the water, itching for an opportunity to break the surface tension. So he prodded at it.

“Fran, why are you really here?”

Fran lifted her head, looking him in the eyes, and didn’t beat it around the bush any longer; he didn’t deserve that. “Ricky, I was let go of.”

Ricky’s face fell, and his mouth fell open along with it, his eyes blinking several times but never leaving Fran’s. He shook his head, hoping to also shake off the astonishment. The sudden tension had made him uncross his legs and sit up straight.

“What? But… how come?” He began. Fran’s eyes fell to her lap once more. “You’re nice, and you’re sweet, and you’re good with children.” No response from Fran. “And you’re responsible, and careful, and you’re never late, not even a second, and you’re an amazing cook, and— Fran, I could go on forever! How come they kicked you out like that? It makes no sense.”

“It does to me, in a way.” She sighed, looking back up at him. “They never liked me. I know they didn’t. And now I suppose they decided they don’t need me anymore.” Fran saw anger beginning to twist Ricky’s features and hurried to dissipate it. “Ricky, you know they _can_ go about things however the hell they want! I can’t stand up to them,” she gestured at herself, as if emphasising her disadvantage against the family who formerly employed her. “And you won’t stand up to them either,” she ordered with a pointed finger. “We need to think about Lucy.”

Ricky’s expression softened and he heaved a heavy sigh, resting his forearms on his legs. He reached a hand up and ran it through his hair. “Right. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry about that.”

Mentioning Lucy made Ricky’s demeanour shift instantly, and Fran almost regretted it. But she had to, she was their priority. Ricky linked his hands together loosely, letting his head hang for a minute, breathing in the silence. Eventually, he lifted it back up to look at Fran again. He looked worried – rightfully so – and overrun with a sadness he was no longer trying to conceal; but, most of all, he looked tired. The sight squeezed Fran’s heart painfully.

“What are we going to do now…?”

Fran rubbed the back of her neck, looking positively apologetic. “I managed to save up some money, but it won’t last forever.”

Ricky let his head hang again. Lucy and Francesca were the two most important people in the world to him, his family, his only family, and to lose one of them would be like losing a limb. It frightened him how quickly that moment of loss was approaching them, and it broke his heart how there seemed to be virtually nothing he could do to stop it, or delay it. He felt Fran take his hands in her own delicate ones, delicate but firm, sure, determined. His eyes met hers as a silent, solitary tear ran towards his chin.

Fran pulled her brows together in a frown, but gave him the tiniest of smiles. “We’ll figure something out, okay?” She reassured him, using the back of her index finger to wipe away the tear. “Together.”

Ricky sniffed, nodding and mirroring her small smile. “Together.”

They pulled each other into a hug, Ricky’s eyes dropping to the ground under heavy lids and Fran’s stuck to the sky. Never had tomorrow felt so helpless. But not hopeless, no. They hoped for change – as they had all their lives – they hoped for a miracle now, they hoped for the best. They hoped that their hope would help them. And that hope would have to be pried from their cold dead hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! i hope you're enjoying the story so far <3 pacing is something i've always kinda struggled with, but i have some stuff planned for this fic so i hope the pacing feels somewhat natural to you guys! once again, i'd love to hear your thoughts! xx


	3. Set in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banjo finds a way to save his business and give those hiding away a chance to be seen.
> 
> Tinsley can't get a break from his work even when spending time with friends.

Around 8:30 PM, the town was still wide awake and lively. Vendors no longer attracted buyers in the market – as they’d already closed shop for the day – but couples strolled by, few businessmen made their way home from their offices and their last meetings and interviews of the day, the occasional carriage rolled past with the hooves of its horses clopping against the pavement.

A man in his early fifties, dressed in a suit of a blue so dark it was almost black and a top hat – just as blue and just as dark – retrieved his watch from his coat pocket and clicked it open as he approached a tall, bulky building near the centre of the town. The watch marked 9 PM sharp. He reached a small window on the bottom floor – _Banjo McClintock’s Exotic Museum_ ’s very own box office – where another man was slumped, seemingly asleep on the wooden sill. The man in the suit leaned against the wall next to the window, looking around. He smoothed down his bushy moustache, taking a deep breath. He took off his top hat and held it in one hand, knocking on the wooden sill with the other, his eyes drifting back to the man he had just startled awake.

“Uh, good evening, Mr McClintock.” The man halfheartedly tried to compose himself, dusting himself off, but was quick to give up and prop his arms on the sill again, resting his head in his hand.

“Yes, Fred, good evening. How are the sales going?” Banjo still allowed hope to lace his voice and shine through his eyes, even though it was shattered every time.

Fred lifted up the hand that wasn’t keeping his head from falling and outstretched all five fingers. Then he lowered two of them, signifying an addition of three to the previous five.

Banjo’s eyes widened a little, both hands now facing down on the sill. “Eight?” A lazy nod from the man behind the booth had Banjo throwing his head back and exhaling in frustration. He looked back down at Fred, who was beginning to drift off again. He clamped a hand on his shoulder, jerking him awake again. “Go home for the night, Fred.”

Fred rubbed at his eyes before smoothing down his waistcoat and nodding. “Okay, thank you, sir.”

Banjo gave him a small smile, putting his hat back on over his dark brown hair. His roots were losing their colour, he’d noticed recently, giving way to shades of grey. When Fred closed the window to the booth and locked it, Banjo turned on his heels and started back the way he had come, one hand in his pocket and the other swinging naturally by his side. Eight tickets. And entire day and they’d sold eight tickets to his exhibits. It was no good, no good at all; he had to do something about it, something to turn the tide. _But what?_ He wondered as he leisurely made his way back to his apartment building. His gaze wandered in front of him, to his sides, sometimes even back behind him, his eyes bouncing off of every surface, every light, every face. And how interesting those faces were, now that he was taking the time to notice them. Each as human as the next, and yet so different from the previous. In all honesty, though, he’d have to turn his head sideways and squint at some of them to be able to find even a tiny detail that stood out, but others were so unique he almost couldn’t take his eyes off them. What strange features they possessed – dark patches, light patches, scars, deformities of birth or accident. And they hid. They hid from all the pristine, the porcelain, the perfect faces that looked down on them as if they were less. And yet, in reality, these strange faces were just as real and just as special as the flawless ones thought themselves to be. No, what the others had weren’t flaws. And that was when it hit him.

“That’s it…” He muttered to himself, realisation in his eyes, in his smile. He looked around one more time, at every face he could see. Then, he picked up the pace and only looked forward, itching to get home.

Banjo’s apartment door opened directly into the open living area, where he kept a small couch and a small table, and an old desk set up against the far wall next to the window. There was a cupboard against the opposite wall with an old tea set, some decorative plates and empty photo frames. He hung his coat and set his top hat down on the table, walking over to the desk. He cleared as much space as he could and sat down, taking a deep breath. He needed to make something that would attract strange people like those he saw in the streets outside. But he needed more than just unusual faces. And he knew that he could get more, that they were out there; people of all shapes and sizes and colours, hiding away when they could be shining. So, it was time to get to work.

* * *

Holly Horsley was many things. Smart, independent, resourceful. Patient, understanding, supportive. A right force of nature when fighting for what she believed in. But, above all, to Tinsley she was a dear friend, and he had a hard time turning her down when she invited him and their associate and long-time friend Jesse Fear – well, _Tinsley’s_ long-time friend – for lunch at her place, as she often did. Truth be told, Horsley and Fear merely tolerated each other, but both were aware that it was unwise to burn potentially useful bridges because of personal preferences. Despite their silent disputes, Tinsley was always delighted to spend time with them. He enjoyed their company outside of work, although the conversation often tended to tilt towards it when Fear was around. He was dedicated, Tinsley supposed, and passionate.

Tinsley was waiting for Fear inside a carriage just outside the older man’s home. He was looking out the window, lost in thought, lost in memory, his hands resting one atop the other on his lap. He was jerked out of his trance by the sound of the door next to him closing as Fear sat down on the seat in front of him, a man in his early sixties clad in a dark, sickly green. He greeted Tinsley with a yellowing smile and an outstretched hand, which Tinsley promptly shook.

“What took you so long? Surely you weren’t having trouble picking a suit, as you seem to wear this same one all the time,” Tinsley joked as the carriage started to move, pulled along by two grey horses.

Fear squinted his beady eyes at him, though he didn’t exactly seem annoyed. He shifted his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose, a gesture that felt natural and distracted. “There was an issue with one of the footmen that had to be dealt with. And I’ll have you know I do not wear the same suit all the time.” He turned his face from the window to look at Tinsley, who was looking back in mild amusement at what he immediately added: “I have several suits like this one.”

They arrived at Holly’s house in just under forty-five minutes. They stepped out of the carriage one after the other, their shoes crunching the gravel underfoot. The two men walked up the steps leading to the door of the manor – a gorgeous three-story building, painted a warm beige and accented with white wherever possible – and waited patiently after knocking. Tinsley clasped his hands together in front of him, Fear clasped his behind his back, lifting up his head a little. Tinsley still towered over him, regardless of how superior he tried to make himself seem. Then again, Tinsley towered over most people; except perhaps the Mayor.

“Inconceivable,” Fear muttered under his breath.

“Beg your pardon?”

Fear cleared his throat before speaking. “A woman around your age—“

“She’s a bit older, you know that.”

“—unmarried and childless.” He continued, gesturing vaguely at the manor, “And, on top of that, doing the same thing we do. Preposterous.”

“Don’t be disrespectful, Fear.” Tinsley turned his face back to the door. “Holly’s just as talented and hardworking as you or me, and deserves to be where she is. Besides, I’m inclined to believe she’s not the only female playwright out there. I suppose you’ll just have to put up with it.”

Fear tutted, rolling his eyes. The door finally opened by the hand of Holly herself, her characteristic high bun perfectly in place.

“Greetings, gentlemen.”

“Hello, Holly,” Tinsley smiled back at her.

“Please, do come in.” She stepped aside so they could enter the house, and they allowed a footman to take their coats and hats.

Holly made her way across the hallways to the dining room, Tinsley and Fear in tow. Frames adorned the walls with a few family pictures, but mostly various artworks. Holly was a lover of all kinds of art, not just literature and theatre. They sat down at the table, Holly at the head with Tinsley to her right and Fear to her left.

“I received news from my brother two days ago,” Holly started, her body ever so slightly angled towards Tinsley.

“Oh, do tell.” There was excitement in his voice that he didn’t bother disguising, nor did he have to. He’d always got along with Holly’s older brother, and they’d been good friends for quite some time. He’d set out on a trip across Europe earlier in the year.

“It seems he has returned to England, according to his letter.” There was a faint smile on her lips as she remembered her home.

Tinsley had been with Henry Horsley a handful of times. Whenever he travelled to America to visit his sister, really. He wrote Henry just as much as Holly did, and a friendship quickly formed. It became harder to keep in touch when he left to travel through Europe, though, so it felt nice to hear from him.

“He went to a library in France that had rows upon rows of books, reaching up to the ceiling. Countless books, so many that some of them had to be kept in neat stacks and piles on the floor near the shelves. He said you would’ve loved it.”

Tinsley chuckled. “It certainly sounds like I would’ve.”

Their food was delicately placed in front of them and their glasses were filled with wine. Fear watched in silence from behind his half-moon spectacles, chin atop linked fingers, not out of disdain, but simply out of lack of connection to Holly’s brother, or interest in the topic at all.

“What about the music? What’s it like?”

“Oh, he says it’s absolutely gorgeous. He wants to take us to Italy and go to the opera.”

Tinsley raised his eyebrows with a smile and a “Oh!”, which made Holly chuckle in amusement.

“You can read the rest of his letter later, if you’d like.”

“I’d love to.”

“The food is delightful today.” Fear cut in, gesturing at one of the maids to come and refill his glass as he wiped at the corners of his mouth. He placed down his napkin and adjusted his glasses. “My compliments to the cook.”

Holly gave him a single nod. “They will be delivered.”

They managed to sit in comfortable silence for no longer than ten minutes until Fear inevitably tore through it with the usual question. He always laced it with such a casual tone that he almost fooled them into believing he didn’t try to force this topic into virtually every given situation.

“So, tell us, Tinsley, how is your next work coming along?”

Tinsley paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He moved his arm back down, resting it against the table, fork still in hand. He threw a glance at Holly, then looked back at his plate as if looking for a way out of the conversation. Finally, he lifted his gaze up towards Fear.

“I’ve hit a bit of a wall, I must admit.”

“A wall?” Fear continued away at his food, looking back to Tinsley every few seconds.

“Yes.” Tinsley shifted slightly in his seat. “I had to scrap some ideas the other day, they wouldn’t do. And I have yet to replace them.”

“Well, that’s no good.” He paused to take a sip. “How do you plan to tackle that?”

Holly had stopped eating at this point. Her eyes bounced back and forth between Fear and Tinsley, her brows drawn together in a scowl. She could see Tinsley had propped his knife and fork against the plate and had moved his hands to his lap, hidden by the tablecloth. She could tell he wasn’t sure whether to look at Fear directly or down at his half-empty plate. Fear continued to eat, seemingly unaware he had upset Tinsley. Unaware or uncaring. Holly would personally bet on the latter.

“You shouldn’t leave your unfinished creations untouched for too long. Time flies, you know? It flies and it is gone before you know it; as are most things.”

“A bit abrasive of you, don’t you think?” Holly intervened.

Fear’s face took on a haughty expression, sprinkled with what felt like defensiveness. “I have his best interests in mind.”

“Well, why don’t you tell us about _your_ writing instead, Jesse?”

Fear lifted his head a tad, looking down his nose at the woman to his right, an eyebrow raised in vague vexation at her behaviour. “It’s going wonderfully, if you must know. I sent some copies of one of my manuscripts to London for rehearsals last week.”

“Sounds grand,” Holly said flatly. She threw a glance at Tinsley, who was looking back, thanking her wordlessly for steering the conversation away from him, at least for the remaining duration of the meal.

* * *

They stayed engaged in conversation for some time after lunch but eventually, reluctantly, they decided it was time to leave. Well, Fear was ready to leave whenever; it was Tinsley who wouldn’t have minded staying. All three playwrights stood up from their seats and bid their goodbyes, the two men then following the footman from earlier to the front door. The boy handed them their coats and hats back and opened and closed the door for them. Their carriage was waiting for them near the steps. They climbed into the same seats as before, Fear sitting with his back to the road ahead. Tinsley immediately turned his face to the window, looking out with unfocused eyes, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“I apologise for what I said earlier. During lunch, about your play.”

Tinsley kept his face turned to the window, but let his eyes drop silently.

“I know I often come off as stern, but it’s because I care about your career. You know I do. That’s why I put a little… pressure on you.”

Tinsley lifted up his gaze to meet Fear’s. He exhaled – a bit of a defeated sigh, really – and nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“You’ve dedicated your life to playwriting. We both have. We enjoy it, it defines us. Look at how far up in life we are, Tinsley. Without our craft, we’d be commoners; we’d be forgotten.” He reached over to clamp a hand on Tinsley’s shoulder. “It’s part of you, is it not? You can’t let it die and disappoint them, now can you?” Still looking into Tinsley’s eyes, he squeezed his shoulder, a gesture that Tinsley felt in the pit of his stomach to be somewhat ominous, rather than friendly. “You wouldn’t want to let them down.”

Tinsley reached a hand up and lightly pat Fear’s, the smallest and saddest of smiles on his lips. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then you should continue to write,” Fear finished, retracting his hand towards his body. “The people are waiting. But they won’t wait forever.”

He then tried a smile of his own, but it didn’t quite feel the same to Tinsley. _Fear’s an odd man_ , he thought, and turned back to the window. Neither man spoke again for the rest of the ride.

* * *

The hour hand of Banjo’s pocket watch was nearing 4 PM when he reached the box office of his museum. Fred was just as bored as the day before, sure, but this time he wasn’t fast asleep. His face morphed into a puzzled expression as he watched Banjo striding towards him, a rolled up sheet of paper in his hand and a bright grin on his face.

“Good afternoon, Mr McClintock. If you came to check on the sales, I’m sorry but there haven’t been—“

“Close up for the day, Fred. You and I have some hammering to do.”

“Hammering?”

Banjo unrolled the paper and spread it over the sill, rotating right side up and towards Fred, a satisfied smile on his face.

“ _Wanted!_ ” Fred began reading. “ _Unique performers and singularities. Man or woman, no matter the age. Bold and marvellous rarities are welcome to become part of Banjo McClintock’s Exotic Museum._ ” Fred looked over the poster one more time, taking notice of the little frame Banjo had taken the time to draw around the words before looking up at him with only his eyes.

“I’m on my way to get a couple dozens of these printed out, and you, my friend, are going to help me put them up. What do you think?”

Fred rolled up the poster and handed it back to Banjo with a shrug of his shoulders. “Won’t know if it works if we don’t try it, I suppose.”

“Yes! That’s what I like to hear,” Banjo beamed. Fred closed up the box office and off to print the copies they went.

They nailed the posters to trees and to walls next to various other posters with announcements, news, and advertisements for other businesses. They nailed them at different heights, and sometimes even two or three next to each other; they had to make sure they used all the space they could get their hands on so that their posters attracted the desired attention. Banjo noticed a couple odd looks here and there, some whispering and muttering from time to time, but instead of letting that discourage him, he took it as a sign their effort was being acknowledged and happily hammered on.

Not even an hour and a half later, virtually all the posters had been installed around town. After putting up the last one, Banjo stepped back with his hands on his hips, admiring his work. He looked to the side and smiled proudly at the shorter man as the latter wiped the sweat off his forehead.

Surely this would turn the tide.

* * *

It was almost 7 PM as Francesca was making her way through and out of the market, a bag of fruit in one hand and a bag of bread in the other. Some of the nicer vendors waved and smiled at her as she passed. Fran weaved her way through the crowd, angling her body to the left and to the right so as to slip in between the smallest of gaps. Sometimes a couple of young boys would come running through the crowd and Fran would have to lift up her bags and swerve to the side to avoid hurting them on accident as they sped past her, barefoot and laughing and holding their caps to their heads to keep them from falling off.

Fran stopped a couple metres out and away from the hustle and bustle of the marketplace to rest for a second and check the bags to make sure that everything was still inside, that nobody had taken advantage of the fuss back at the market to slip a sly hand in and score an orange or a piece of bread for themselves. She was satisfied to conclude that that hadn’t been the case. She slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and was in the middle of reaching up to wipe at her forehead when she noticed some words on the wall to her left. Words she didn’t remember seeing there before, amongst the other posters nailed to the wall, collecting rain and collecting dust and growing yellow and faded from the sunlight. A smile slowly took form on her lips as she read those words and she ripped the poster from the wall without hesitation. Only then did she look around at her surroundings, making sure it was fine for the poster to be taken off the wall. When no one came to bother her about the piece of printed paper in her hands, Fran folded it and shoved it into one of the bags, promptly picking both of them back up and continuing on her way home. Ricky should be taking care of dinner by now.

Once on the other side of the front door, Fran picked up the bags from the floor and made her way to the kitchen. She turned around and used her back to open one of the doors so she could come in without having to set the bags down on the floor a third time.

“Oh hello, you.” Ricky threw her a glance over his shoulder from where he stood, cutting up vegetables near the sink.

“Hey,” Fran walked over to him, bags still in hand and a smile on her face. She planted an innocent kiss on his cheek and turned away towards the table, placing the bags on it. “Come over here for a minute, I want to show you something.”

“You left me here by myself with all these vegetables, now you’re going to have to wait for me to finish chopping them up. Sorry.” He glanced at her again with a smile and a playful shrug of his shoulders.

“Come on, silly,” Fran grabbed one of his arms and dragged him to the table to the sound of fake protests. “You’ll want to see this.” She pulled the poster from the bag it’d been sitting in and unfolded it, holding it in front of herself.

Ricky took the paper from her hands and began to read, muttering the words. Slowly, he sat down on one of the chairs around the table, brows raised and eyes still stuck to the poster. Fran pulled a chair of her own and angled herself towards Ricky.

He looked up at her with pursed lips, then looked back down at the poster in his hands. Finally, he let it sit on the table and looked at Fran again with a slight shake of his head. “I don’t know about this, Fran.”

Fran took his hands in hers, her smile now considerably softer than before. “Ricky, this could be good for us.”

Ricky kept looking back and forth between Fran and the poster underneath their linked hands. “And my mom…?”

“We could help her with _this_!” There was a tiny spark in her eyes. “Listen, I can ask the girls back at the Thompsons to keep an eye on her whenever we’re away, yes? And as soon as we start seeing some money, we could have someone here full-time, we could finally buy her the meds she needs, hell, who’s to say we can’t get her a doctor?”

“Assuming this crazy idea,” he used his head to gesture at the poster, “actually manages to pay the people he’s hiring. Fran, I agree that this looks promising, but—“

She squeezed his hands gently. “Ricky, this could be our chance. Sometimes the worst course of action is taking no action at all. Just like Lucy says, right?”

No matter the situation, Ricky had come to noticed that his mother’s words always managed to sway him. He let his head hang, taking a deep breath. He let it out slowly as he straightened back up, slipping his hands from Fran’s and picking up the poster to look at it again. His features were softer now, and he let hope flood through him again.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.” Fran beamed. “ _’Unique performers’_ , though?” He chuckled. “What can we even offer that guy, hm?”

Fran’s expression dulled and she turned her gaze aside in thought for a few moments, hands now resting relaxed on her lap. Then, she looked back at him, a confident smile spread across her lips.

“Remember how we used to tie bed sheets together and play up in the trees when we were children?”

Ricky raised an eyebrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! im not too sure what time those gilded age/victorian markets actually “closed” and i couldn’t find any specific info on that, but im assuming that by 8 pm theyd be closed lmao cause munchy munchy time so uhhhh yeah! but if by any chance any of you know that information, im actually very curious so do share! xx


	4. New Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Banjo hires Ricky and Fran.
> 
> Tinsley learns some new information from Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me a bit longer to crank this chapter out bc tbh im not that happy with it as i was with the previous ones, but alas the show must go on! so i hope everything makes sense and i hope you guys still enjoy it <3 xx

_He's alone. He can’t see anything but darkness in any direction. There are no walls, no doors or windows. He feels the floor move under his feet; he’s static but he knows he’s moving with it. It rumbles and vibrates, and Tinsley feels disoriented. He doesn’t know which way to turn, where to look, and almost loses balance if he turns around too fast. He rubs at his eyes in an attempt to pull his surroundings into focus, perhaps this way he could see more than just the darkness. And he did._

_When he opened his eyes, there were strange people all around him. Not strange, no, but strangers. His surroundings came to life around him, colour emerging from the darkness. He felt his feet much more grounded now, like he could finally walk in a straight line without toppling over to either side. He could still feel whatever he was on moving at a high speed, faster than a sprinting horse, faster than any train he’d ever been on. But that wasn’t possible, because he really was on a train._

_The strangers were sitting down, some were standing. There were businessmen sitting alone, reading newspapers or signing documents. Families sat together laughing and smiling and pointing at the passing scenery outside their windows. Tinsley felt a tug at his heart as he watched them. That, and also confusion. How come none of them seemed to notice how fast the train was going? Surely he couldn’t be the only one. He heard shuffling behind him and turned around to see a group of men wearing long coats, hats and leather gloves. His eyes widened as they landed on the guns the men wielded. He heard gasps, he saw from the corner of his eyes parents covering their children, the businessmen cowering against their windows, attendants throwing helpless glances at each other. Tinsley’s hands shook as he watched the men charging in his direction with confident strides. He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, but he was certain they were bad news. He felt the train pick up speed._

_“Excuse me, what are you—“ Tinsley began, immediately interrupted by the first man as he walked through Tinsley like he was a cloud of mist, the others following suit. Tinsley followed their movements, turning around again. He watched in shock and bewilderment as these strange men yanked watches from passengers’ pockets and necklaces from their necks, turned their pockets inside out looking for money and taking whatever they found for themselves. And yet, they still seemed unsatisfied. Tinsley reached for one of the man’s arms, intending to take hold of it, but his hand just moved effortlessly through the man’s arm, as it seemed he could phase through them just as easily as they phased through him. The train moved faster._

_“Hey, what are you doing, stop!” Tinsley yelled as the men began aiming their guns at the passengers who refused to cooperate. They couldn’t see him, and they couldn’t hear him. They didn’t know he was there. It was like he wasn’t. The pull on the first trigger urged Tinsley to once again try to grab the man who was closest to him by the arm, by the scruff, by the lapels of his coat, anything, always in vain._

_Blood decorated the windows, the seats, the floor like paint had been flicked off a brush and into a canvas to paint a morbid picture. The men moved through the train car, and Tinsley followed, albeit knowing he couldn’t stop them. But he kept trying. And they kept going. Tinsley looked behind him, and in front of him again, and the train car seemed to stretch on forever in both directions. He couldn’t see either end of it. More seats kept appearing, more and more people, more and more lives for these armed men to plough through, unrelenting and determined to find whatever it was they were looking for. The train moved faster. Impossibly fast. Unimaginably fast._

_In the blink of an eye, the train around Tinsley became devoured by the blackness. The men faded from reality, their thundering footsteps echoing and dying out into silence. He was alone again. The floor no longer moved underfoot. He whirled around, again and again. There was nothing there. There were no walls, no doors or windows. And no sound at all but for Tinsley’s panted breaths. His impossibly wide eyes widened even more at the sound of familiar laughter. Tinsley searched for the source of the sound. There was nothing there. The delighted laughter changed pitch and became distorted and shifted into heart-wrenching cries, weeping, wailing. Still familiar. Tinsley jerked his head from side to side, whirled around, took a step or two every couple of seconds. He searched, helpless, hopeless. Once again he heard gunshots. Four gunshots. They echoed all around him, reverberating off surfaces he couldn’t see, ringing in his ears. It was the only sound he could hear. The crying had stopped suddenly. There was nothing else in the world besides Tinsley and the echo of the shots, he was alone. He was alone. Alone. Alone—_

He awoke suddenly and sat up on his bed in one quick motion, his breaths ragged. His clothes and his sheets were drenched in sweat, as was his hair as it stuck to his forehead. After taking a few minutes to get himself together, Tinsley swung his legs off the side of the bed. For another good few minutes he just sat there, gripping the edge of the bed with knuckles white as snow. He considered laying back down and going back to sleep, but swiftly decided against it. He got on his feet and shrugged on a dressing gown, taking the lamp from his bedside table and heading downstairs towards the kitchen. He needed some tea.

He sat down at the table, holding the cup with both hands, eyes unfocused. He sat still for a few long moments, his eyes closed. Then he set down the cup and propped his elbows on the table, his head resting heavy in his hands, eyes still closed. Tears streamed silently down his cheeks and into his tea. He knew they were falling into his tea, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t feel like drinking it anymore.

* * *

It was a chilly morning, but it was still somehow pleasant. Birds chirped outside, hidden in the trees whose leaves refused to fall. Breakfast was quiet, the only words they spoke part of small talk. It wasn’t a bad sign, nor anything of the sorts; they just couldn’t stop their minds from racing and robbing them of their focus for meaningful conversations. Both Ricky’s and Francesca’s eyes glittered with equal amounts of nervousness and excitement. Lucy had voiced her concerns about their decision, but she’d also expressed gratitude and, above all, how proud she was of them.

With a smile, she wished them good luck just before they left her room. They made their way through the house and out the front door. Ricky closed it softly behind them, rubbing his hands together as his eyes met Fran’s. He smiled, a nervous curve of his lips. She smiled back, and it mirrored his.

“Well, let’s do this.”

They walked down the handful of steps from the porch to the front of the house and stepped onto the road, heading to the museum. Ricky had his hands in his pockets, comfortable, and Fran’s arm hooked around his. She held the rolled-up poster in her other hand.

“What do you think he’s like?”

“Hm?”

“McClintock. What do you think he’s like?”

Ricky pondered this. “Well, hopefully he’s better than the Thompsons, for starters,” he chuckled.

Fran’s head snapped from side to side, making sure no one was listening in. “Ricky!” She whispered harshly.

He seemed amused by her reaction. He continued, “I don’t know, to be honest. I guess I’m hoping he’s a good guy, because if not, that’s going to make bailing much harder.” Fran nodded in agreement.

They reached the museum. It was a tall and wide and imposing building, but it wasn’t intimidating in the slightest. Ricky and Fran exchanged looks, brows raised slightly. Ricky noticed the man at the box office directing some folks inside and decided to walk over to him, Fran in tow, hoping he could help them as well.

“Morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” Fred replied. It didn’t sound particularly friendly, nor lively, just polite.

“We’re here because of this.” He pointed to his left, where Fran was holding up the poster.

Fred explained how to get to the backstage area – more of a grossly oversized storage room – reassuring them that they couldn’t possibly miss the hiring line-up. And he wasn’t wrong; there was line of people of substantial length that ended at a wooden table, sitting behind which was a man clad in blue. The people standing in line engaged in friendly conversation as they waited for their turn to talk to the man at the table. Neither Ricky nor Fran had ever seen so many different people gathered in the same place before, each as unique as the next. Ricky’s eyes turned curious and his lips curled into a smile as he took everything in. They were in the back part of the museum, they could see boxes in the corner and bits of scaffolding and single flights of wooden stairs here and there, and yet when they looked around, it all already felt so grand.

“Think that’s him?” Fran pulled him out of his thoughts, using her head to point in the direction of the man sitting at the beginning of the line.

“Hm?” He followed her gaze. “Oh. Definitely. I mean, has to be, right? Unless it’s that guy outside. I hope not. That’d be disappointing.” Fran elbowed him playfully, earning a chuckle from him in return.

“He looks so… normal.”

“In what way?”

Fran seemed to mull this over for a moment or two. “He doesn’t look like those rich, entitled snobs. He looks approachable. He doesn’t look like he walks around with a stick up his behind and pockets full of his daddy’s money.”

“That’s because he ain’t like that.”

The two looked behind them at the man who’d just spoken. His clothes looked like they could fit both Ricky and Fran at the same time, and maybe even a third person. His face was round and kind, rose cheeks cradling a warm smile.

“No?”

The man shook his head. “Came from humble beginnings himself. ‘Least that’s what they say.”

Fran and Ricky exchanged looks, smiling back at the man before turning around. Ricky raised his brows, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips as he shrugged one shoulder. Fran smiled as she watched Banjo shake hands with the person he’d been talking to, a bright smile on his face as he slapped the man’s arm in a hearty and almost affectionate way. There was hope still, she thought, that they’d made the right decision.

Eventually, it was almost their turn. The only thing standing between them and Banjo McClintock was a man taller than any other man Ricky had ever seen. He had to throw his head almost all the way back, as if he meant to look at the ceiling, to be able to look this man in the face. Ricky was tall enough to reach just below the bottom of the man’s sternum.

“Hey look, he’s one Ricky and a half tall,” Fran joked, earning herself a glare from Ricky.

They shook hands and the man stepped aside and walked away. Ricky and Fran advanced, Banjo watching them as they took their seats opposite him. He observed them quietly, his eyes wandering over Ricky’s eyes and his olive skin, as well as Fran’s, dark as night and without a blemish; her curly hair was pushed out of her face by a burgundy hair band, a few rogue curls sticking out, and Ricky’s was ruffled in the neatest of ways. There wasn’t a trace of negativity in his features as he looked at them. He’d never been one to put others down for what they had, let alone who they were. Really, he simply _looked_.

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Banjo shook each of their hands in turn. “And what would your names be, my friends?”

“Ricardo Goldsworth,” Ricky started, gesturing to himself. He then gestured to Fran beside him and added, “And Francesca Norris.”

“Beautiful names,” he smiled.

They looked at each other for a brief second. “Thank you, sir,” Fran said.

“Any other names you go by?”

They exchanged looks again. It was Ricky who answered this time. “Just Ricky and Fran.”

“Wonderful. Roll off the tongue, don’t they?” His gaze bounced from one apprehensive face to the other. “C’mon, you two, loosen up. Be yourselves,” he chuckled. “What is it that you do?”

“Aerial silk, sir,” Fran replied. Ricky shot Banjo a tight smile, his brows raised, hoping he’d still want them.

“Aerial silk! Isn’t that lovely,” he smiled, a small one. “Quick question – and I do hope I’m not being invasive,” he showed his palms, showing he meant no harm. “Are you two together?”

Embarrassment washed over the younger pair and both scrambled to reply, trampling each other with their words. Fran was quicker to form a coherent sentence.

“Oh, no, no,” she tried a laugh. “We, uh, grew up together. Our families have been friends for a very long time.”

“Ah, I see.” Banjo leaned back in his chair. “So you’re more like siblings, in that case.”

Ricky and Fran looked at each other yet again. They’d never really thought about it like that. They’d never really even given it much thought at all; they were always just _there_. They always felt like family to each other, but it was never exactly brought up in conversation. They liked the sound of it, though. They smiled, turning their attention back to Banjo.

“In a way, yes,” Ricky said. “I suppose you could say that.”

Banjo threw open his arms with a bright smile. “Then let’s say it!” He sat upright and shook their hands. “Welcome to the crew.”

* * *

Early evening threatened darkness upon the town with its rapidly vanishing sunset. Tinsley and Fear had just stepped into the theatre, the building already filling up. They made their way up to the galleries to the left of the stage, taking the seats that were the closest to it. Fear crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. Tinsley kept his legs uncrossed. He watched people file in and take their seats, whether up in the galleries or down below facing the stage. The grand drape was still drawn across the wooden platform, separating the audience from the actors getting ready behind it. When Holly appeared from behind the heavy cloth, conversations turned to whispers and the world fell silent. Her hair was styled into the usual high bun and there was a braid across the top of her head. A rich, deep purple covered her from head to toe. She cleared her throat and adjusted her wire-framed glasses.

“Good evening,” she began. “And thank you all for coming to today’s premiere. The story we’re about to tell you is one of my most recent scripts, as well as one of the ones I’m proudest of.” She smoothed down her small coat against her body, looking over the crowd. “Without further ado, I hope you enjoy “The Good Man’s Ghosts”.” With that, she gave a small bow and disappeared behind the drape. Moments later, the backdrop of the stage was revealed and a respectable-looking man – who Tinsley knew to be the main character – stepped forwards into the light.

Fear leaned towards Tinsley about half an hour into the show. “I recall skimming through this script at one point, after she’d finished it. Not her finest work, I’m afraid.”

Tinsley’s brows drew together in a frown and his head snapped aside to face the older man just in time to see him casually pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose. “You read the manuscript without her permission? Fear, you know very well how much she hates that.”

Fear waved a dismissive hand. “It was laid out on her desk, unattended. You mean to tell me you wouldn’t have had a peek?”

“No!” Tinsley glanced at the stage and the exit that he could see from where they were sitting. He knew Holly was watching the play, but he couldn’t see her at the minute. He looked back at Fear. “Does she know?”

“Oh, definitely not,” came the flippant reply.

“Fear!” At times, Tinsley felt like he was dealing with an unruly teenager.

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind as much if it’s one of us who does it.”

And just like that, he turned his attention back to the play he had just blatantly belittled. Somebody else could’ve been fooled into thinking he was actually invested in the story. Tinsley sighed, turning his own attention to the play.

Actresses dressed in white waltzed into view, their skin made to appear as pale as death itself. Their footsteps were soft, their movements delicate, and they spoke in smooth voices that were dripping with pain befitting of their characters. They were memories of the man at the centre of the stage and they had come to haunt him like they’d done earlier in the story. He was kneeling on the floor, curled in on himself, sobbing quietly. One of the women sat down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. Another knelt down next to him, a hand resting on her lap and the other running through his hair, painfully slow. A third one paced casually behind him, hands clasped loosely at her back and head held high, reeling off the memories she and her sisters embodied. She did so with a voice that was deceivingly soothing, and bordering on antagonistic. The man didn’t move; he couldn’t. His character was trapped in this moment, and all he could do was wait it out.

Fear leaned in again, this time speaking in a lower tone. “There’s been another attack on a train. Have you heard?”

It took Tinsley a few seconds to realise what he had just heard wasn’t part of the play. He shook his head, willing himself out of the story and back to reality. “I—” He let his gaze drift to Fear, “No. I haven’t.”

“On the same route as the Cutthroat Robbery, too.”

“What?” His eyes widened a tad in surprise.

Fear nodded solemnly. “Several casualties, just like last time. A big gun was killed, apparently.”

Tinsley swallowed. “Was he part of a family? Or some other gang?”

“It seems he worked for the Brogelli family. In any case, he had it coming. A stool pigeon, they say.”

The more Fear spoke, the less Tinsley wanted to know. Yet, he let him continue. Not that Fear would’ve cared to stop anyway.

“People say that’s who the attackers were looking for five years ago, but they missed him by a hair that time. It seems like the previous attack wasn’t meant to be a plain robbery, but instead an assault with a specific goal. I suppose the low lives just couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to steal some for themselves. Scoundrels.” Fear uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, the one previously underneath now on top. “As for the pigeon, if you ask me, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time once again and this time his luck ran out.” Fear dipped his head aside, shrugging a single shoulder half-heartedly. “Not something I’ll personally be losing sleep over. Or most folks, for that matter.”

Tinsley swallowed again, his lips parted. His gaze floated downwards to his lap where his hands began fidgeting. He closed his mouth and looked at Fear again with furrowed brows. The man sat to his right with proper posture and an unreadable expression on his face. Tinsley looked down again, stealing a quick glance at his associate before turning his eyes back to the stage, where the actors moved on with their performance. He took a deep breath through his mouth and let it out slowly through his nose, linking his fingers firmly to stop from fidgeting.

No matter what he did, Tinsley was unable to focus on the play for the rest of the evening. He was looking at the shapes, the bodies moving across the stage, but he wasn’t seeing. He didn’t know what to do with the information Fear had given him. To be frank, there wasn’t much to be done with it, really. Tinsley wasn’t sure whether this new development made him angry that the event from five years ago had been replicated, sad that more people had to die at the hands of these mysterious attackers so that they could get what they wanted, or weirdly relieved to know there had been a reason behind the last train attack. He supposed he felt all three simultaneously, and went with that.

After the play, Tinsley went home. He didn’t stay for the party; he’d have to apologise to Holly for that some other time. Later that night, as he was getting ready for bed, there was a feeling of uneasiness at the back of his mind that refused to subside. Tinsley couldn’t quite explain it, so he decided to push it further down the depths of his mind hoping that, by being left alone, it would leave him alone too. He went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while aerial silk is supposedly super new, there's a stunning photo of circus performer Amy LaVan from the early 1900s where she's doing aerial silk, and i love aerial silk and really wanted ricky&fran to do it so im hoping u guys can be lenient with me about that <33  
> as always both kudos and comments validate me and thus are greatly appreciated, so keep 'em coming! would love to hear your thoughts as the story progresses!!  
> also i know we seem a bit far from tinsworth territory but it! is! coming! im just hoping i can make it worthwhile to u guys xx


	5. Sin Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear goes to a meeting where, for once, he can't force his presence onto everybody else in the room.
> 
> Ricky and Fran realise they might've just found themselves a second home.
> 
> And Banjo lightheartedly shoos away a certain newspaper editor using his larger-than-life pride for his most prized possession, his circus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which fear is shady, tinsley continues to be a sadsack, ricky and fran are cute as fuck and banjo is a child. but like, in a good way

The Mayor had left Tinsley to his devices for a couple of hours now. The manor was mostly silent in the evening, with most of the staff having gone off to bed. But not the Mayor. No, he’d only go to his room after Tinsley had gone to his. He walked up the stairs and crossed the landing to Tinsley’s study. He knocked, the glove over his skin softening the sound. No answer. He decided to check the parlour. No sign of Tinsley there either. Then, the Mayor walked back down the stairs and made his way to the piano room, finding the door to be completely open. Sure enough, there he was, sitting at the piano; the instrument sat at an angle in relation to the doorway, but upon sitting down the player would still have their back fully turned to the door. It was a large room. Tall windows were cut out into the wall opposite the door, and the grand piano sat in the centre, majestic, its lid closed down. There was a grandfather clock against the left wall along with a couple half-empty bookshelves and a currently active fireplace. A handful of old portraits and a landscape or two were scattered along the walls. Near the wall to the right there was a small table with a tea set between two rocking chairs collecting dust. An impressive chandelier hung from the ceiling, static; below, a rug of considerable size covered most of the floor. Soft rain had begun to stain the windows, adding to the ambience provided by the crackling fire and the ticking of the clock.

Tinsley sat quietly at the piano, holding a photograph almost too faded to be recognizable, absentmindedly stroking it with his thumb. A dainty jar of desert zinnias sat atop the lid of the piano. The Mayor observed him in sorrowful silence, hands behind his back. The piano had been closed for years, being used only as Tinsley was currently using it – akin to how one would use a regular table. He would sit here alone for hours at a time, lost in the photograph he held in his hands. The Mayor shook his head slightly, blinking several times, willing himself to focus; he had come to ask Tinsley if he needed anything. He stepped into the room, quiet as a mouse, and yet failed to go unnoticed.

“I think I’m relieved, you know,” Tinsley began. He remained with his back to the door, and didn’t even as much as look over his shoulder to speak. It seemed he had sensed the Mayor’s presence looming by the door. “That they weren’t the targets of the Cutthroat Robbery. Just… got caught in the crossfire, I suppose.”

“It would seem so,” the Mayor agreed, stepping further into the room.

“I'm not saying this because I didn’t believe that he wasn't somehow connected to it, of course I did. I trusted him. I trusted him all my life. Hell, I trusted him _with_ my life.” He chuckled, a dry sound. “He was always lucky when it came to doing business with… less-than-respectable people. And he was a good man, he was good, he just seemed to attract people who weren’t. I guess that’s what had me worried.” He sighed. “Even with his wife by his side to advise him, to hopefully keep him grounded and away from trouble… You know what’s funny?” He finally looked up from the photograph, facing the Mayor with a rueful smile.

The Mayor was now standing next to him, hands still behind his back. He looked away from the photograph too – when had his eyes drifted towards it? – and met Tinsley’s eyes. “I’m sure you’ll tell me, sir.”

“What’s funny is that, to be quite frank with you, I don’t believe having her as his rock was of much help.” The Mayor inclined his head ever so slightly, waiting for him to elaborate. Tinsley continued, “Because she was just as adventurous as he was, if not more.”

The Mayor smiled a small smile. “They were a great match.”

Tinsley looked back down at the photograph. In it was Tinsley and another man, not much shorter than him. They were teenagers at the time the photo was taken. The man’s head was mostly faded out of existence from all the rubbing. But Tinsley knew it was him. “Yeah, they were made for each other.”

The two men lapsed back into silence. The rain fell against the windows, soft, subtle. The fire chewed away at the logs it had been fed, the wood snapping, crackling, popping. The clock ticked away, ever-present. Tinsley stood up slowly, trapping the photograph under the flower jar. He placed a finger under a petal of one of the zinnias, lifting it barely an inch.

“I should take some of these to the cemetery in the morning.”

The Mayor nodded. “I think they would like that.”

* * *

Water fell from sky in the form of a soft sprinkle. Fear crossed the street and made it into _The Whiskey Musket_ just as the clouds darkened, and just before the light rain became a respectable downpour. The bar was empty save for a single employee. He was cleaning and drying various glasses. Fear removed his hat, adjusting the tie around his neck.

“Quite the weather we’re having today, huh?” Fear chuckled awkwardly.

After a few moments with no reply, Fear cleared his throat and began walking towards the back of the establishment, observing the young man sidelong. The bartender spared a glance at Fear, looking up with only his eyes, then quickly returned to the wet glass of wine in his hands, seemingly quite bored altogether. Fear moved his eyes forward, having reached an inconspicuous door at the back. He pushed down on the brass handle and stepped through, closing the door behind him. Softly glowing candles hung from the wall to his left every couple of steps. Fear adjusted his tie again and down the spiral stairwell he went. The bottom was a tad roomier than the stairwell itself, but the air was by no means lighter. Fear raised a hand to knock but the door was opened for him just moments before he touched it. His hand recoiled as a reflex. He lowered it warily at the sight of the tall man on the other side of the threshold. The man looked down his nose at him with an unreadable expression. Behind him was a familiar room, akin to a parlour, with drinks ready on a low wooden table and two sofas and two armchairs displayed around it. There was no fireplace, and no windows to be seen. There was a simple chandelier above the centre of the room and a two or three framed landscapes across the walls. To the far left there was a lonely shelf, tall and wide but mostly empty; it had some books and a weird, expensive-looking vase.

The tall man stepped aside, revealing a shorter man with sleek, dark hair positively lounging on one of the sofas. He smiled. “Good evening, Jesse.”

Fear swallowed as he felt a hand on his back, pushing him further into the room. The door clicked shut behind him, a soft sound. The tall man moved to sit on the armchair to the left of the shorter man, crossing his legs in a figure four. His eyes were hard and unforgiving, but there was a certain charm to him. Fear held his hat in both hands, trying his best to make the gesture look casual.

“Good evening, Mr Brogelli.” He advanced slowly towards the sofa opposite Brogelli, nodding at the tall man beside him. “Mr Miani.” He noticed the black-clad man leaning against the wall next to the shelf with the weird vase. Fear could tell he was always there, lurking silently, always just barely in the periphery, but could never quite seem to remember his name after a meeting was over. “And Mr…?”

“J,” the man said simply, unblinking.

“Forgettable, isn’t he?” Brogelli started. “It’s a handy thing to be. Only remembered by those who need a reminder.”

“…Right.” Fear turned his gaze back to Brogelli. “Of course, Mr Brogelli.”

Brogelli kept a lazy smile on his face, clearly enjoying Fear’s poorly disguised uneasiness. “Please, Jesse, you know “Night” is enough.” He shifted in his seat into a more comfortable position. “I would say the same goes for Legs here, but that’s a bit more of a privilege J and I have.”

Fear nodded a bit stiffly. Night gestured at the sofa in front of him, as well as the table between them, with an open hand, swilling his drink in the other. Fear moved around the sofa and sat down, taking one of the glasses for himself.

“You look damp,” he said, a lilting Italian accent clear in his voice, a fact that held true for the other two men as well. “I hope you didn’t have to walk in the rain to get here.” The mock-concern was just as clear.

“Oh, I got here just in time.” Fear lifted the glass to his lips, sipping silently.

“Hm, so you did.”

Fear worked away at the crimson liquid in his glass. He sat back, now feeling more relaxed, even though there was still a certain sort of tightness to his voice. “I assume you’ve heard there was another train attack recently.”

Night exchanged a quick glance with Legs. “We did. A tragedy,” he said, monotonous.

Fear nodded. “I heard one of your boys was killed. It’s a shame you had a Judas in your midst, sir, though I suppose you can take solace in the fact that dead men tell no tales.”

Night raised his brows slightly in vague amusement. “It is unfortunate, yes.” He took a mouthful of his drink, topping up his glass afterwards. He didn’t look at Fear during the whole process. “Almost as unfortunate as how sloppy the job was the first time. He managed to get away before, but there will be no escaping for the bastard this time.”

“Not out of a wooden box and six feet of dirt,” Legs added.

Fear choked on his drink. The three men watched in silence as he steadied himself. “T-That was your doing?”

“You thought it had been somebody else?” Night idly swirled his drink around in its glass, a smile forming on his lips. Well, it could’ve been a smile, but Fear found it to be more of a subtle baring of teeth. Heavy lids accompanied the gesture. “I’m hurt.” Night’s demeanour was unsettlingly calm. Fear placed his glass down on the table, swallowing.

He loosened his tie a little bit, clearing his throat. “Well, moving on to the purpose of this meeting,” he laughed nervously. “How well is the script we sent to London doing?”

Night suddenly seemed entirely unimpressed, if not a tad miffed. “The script _I_ sent to London is doing splendid,” he replied in the flattest of tones. “The cast has been selected and rehearsals have started. They’re going well.”

The news seemed to brighten Fear’s mood. “That is just fantastic. When can we start talking about profits?”

Night raised an eyebrow, placing his glass down, his gravelly voice sending a faint shiver down Fear’s spine. “Beg your pardon?”

He scrambled to find the right words, those that would keep his head on his shoulders while still hopefully getting his point across. “W-Well, you see, I was merely wondering when I could have my share… sir.“

“Whenever I see fit,” Night replied with finality. He sat back, crossing his legs and linking his fingers atop his stomach. “You may be one of my family’s associates, but don’t mistake your place. You should thank your lucky star, Jesse, that I’m so kind as to let you work at your own pace. So don’t make me pick up mine.”

Fear let his eyes drop to the half-empty glass he cradled in his hands, his shoulders stiff. “Of course, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.” Night picked up his drink again, back to lounging on the sofa. A frown had crept its way onto his face. “You know what? I think I want us to be done here, actually.”

Fear lifted his head, opening his mouth to speak. Night didn’t give him the chance to get a single word out.

“Thank you, Jesse, for this… pleasant chat. You can let yourself out,” he spoke into his drink, not even bothering to face the other man. “Unless you want me to do it.” He threw his head back, downing the rest of his drink in one.

Fear looked up, shaking his head after a moment. He stood up from his seat, setting down his glass. “Rest of a good evening, gentlemen.” He made his way around the sofa and towards the door, feeling all three pairs of eyes fixed to the back of his head with such intensity he could almost feel them boring holes in it. He opened the door, giving Night one final, curt nod before closing it behind him. He caught a glimpse of a wave from Legs, clearly feigning friendliness.

Fear walked up the candle-lit stairwell and back into the bar. Through the windows he could see that it was dark outside, and that it was still pouring. He sighed, heading for a table at one of the windows. He sat down and propped an elbow up on the table, his chin resting on his hand and his other arm resting on the table, hand hanging limp over the edge. He turned his head to face the window and watch the rain come crashing down from the sky onto the pavement outside.

* * *

**_Three months later_ **

“Then we could come down together, and at the bottom I could hold you out like this, maybe.” Ricky scribbled a drawing on the sheet of paper in front of him. Fran hummed in agreement.

“Good morning, you two,” said a third voice, sounding increasingly closer as it approached the duo.

Ricky and Fran turned their heads around, gazing upon the newcomer. “Good morning, Grace.”

Grace smiled, a curve of her lips that reached her light blue eyes. She stepped around them and sat down on the floor across from them, her wavy snow-white hair falling over her snow-white shoulders to rest on her snow-white chest. An _albino_ , they called her, a _freak_. Yet, both Ricky and Fran failed to see just what exactly was so offending about their friend.

“What are you up to?” She craned forward to take a peek at the pieces of paper laid out between them. “Ah, coming up with a new routine?”

“Trying to,” Ricky laughed. “We’re having a bit of trouble deciding which movements to use. We like most of them, but we can’t cram them all into one routine.”

Grace inclined her head in thought for a couple seconds. Then she said, “Why don’t you start with a solo act on one side, then you move on to the other solo act on the other side, and then finally meet in the middle? That way you can have more diversity in your performance, and not just two-person moves. You could even ask Banjo for some lighting tricks. You know, play with the perspective, keep the audience guessing.”

Ricky and Fran exchanged looks, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. “That’s actually not that bad of an idea,” Fran smiled. “Thank you, Grace.”

Grace smiled in return, a proud one, watching Ricky scribble down some notes.

“You know,” she started. “It’s funny how we’ve only been here for a couple of months and everybody already feels like family.”

Ricky looked up from the paper with just his eyes, then looked back down and scribbled some more. Then he leaned back on his hands, nodding. “Yeah. And it’s more than that, too, I think.” He paused, watching their fellow performers walk by, some holding different materials and props, some carrying clothes from one room to another, and all of them threw him a smile and a nod as a form of greeting when their eyes met. Ricky himself smiled; at this point, he had begun to think it was a reflex just from seeing the others all around him. “It’s more than that. I don’t know about you, but working for Banjo, being here with everyone, performing alongside all of you… I feel welcome. I feel home, in a way.”

The girls nodded and hummed in agreement.

“And _seen_. I feel seen,” Grace chimed in.

Ricky snapped his fingers, pointing his index one at Grace. “Yes! Yes, “seen”, absolutely.”

“And not in a bad way,” Fran added. “I mean, people actually _want_ to see us. They actually enjoy their time in our presence. It’s not forced, or boring, or some sort of unusual punishment.”

Ricky sat up, crossing his legs and resting his hands over his feet. “I never thought I’d say this – I mean seriously, if you had told me a year ago or even half a year ago, that I’d end up here, I’d laugh in your faces – I never thought I’d say this, but… It feels right, you know? Weirdly enough, this feels right.”

“Like we belong,” Grace added. They nodded.

Suddenly, she lifted her hand up in the air, waving at somebody behind Ricky and Fran. The pair looked behind them and proceeded to mimic her gesture. As he came closer, Banjo smiled down at them.

“Good morning, friends.” He continued walking, heading for the door that led outside.

“Now,” Grace began, using her head to point at the papers sitting in the middle of their little triangle. “Why don’t you tell me about what you’ve come up with so far?”

* * *

Banjo stepped out of the museum, taking in the street’s fresh air – well, it felt fresh when one had been inside a building working all morning – and immediately spotted a man dressed in a black suit and a matching bowler hat. The man stood before the museum, observing it with stern eyes behind glasses with frames that were round and almost comically small. His handlebar moustache was curled to perfection. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and kept them there as Banjo approached him.

“Would you look at that,” Banjo started with a smile. “If it isn’t the man himself, Mr Morris Ashley from the _New World Gazette_.”

Morris kept his face neutral. “Greetings, Mr McClintock.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Banjo had walked down all the steps that led up to the entrance of the museum and now stood in front of the newspaper editor, barely half a head taller the man. After a quick handshake, Morris’ hands returned to their original position, hidden behind him.

“Just admiring what you’ve done with the place.”

Banjo stole a glance behind him at the building he’d promptly called home. “You like it?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Pity.”

Morris narrowed his eyes slightly at this, an almost-imperceptible movement of his eyelids. He swiftly moved on, “I’ll admit, however, that it _is_ appealing to the eye. It’s a shame, really, that most of what you sell are freaks and fabricated lies.”

“Lies?” Banjo looked puzzled for a moment, but his smile didn’t take long to return. A smile that Banjo knew Morris found somewhat irritating. “I’m sorry, Mr Ashley, but there’s nothing fabricated about the joy I see in people’s faces during my shows.”

The editor seemed to consider this. “Fair. I do admire your resilience, though. But that’s as far as my admiration goes, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Banjo quipped in response.

“Unfortunately, the higher classes aren’t willing to give you much, except perhaps disdain and disgust.”

“So I’ve heard. I’ve also seen your delightful articles in the gazette, my friend.”

Morris’ hands moved from his back to his neck to adjust his tie, seemingly out of habit. It was perfectly in place, and it stayed perfectly in place. “I’m sure you have.” He glanced up at the words above the entrance, where they now read _Banjo McClintock’s Grand Circus_. “And I see you’ve taken a liking to a particular epithet.”

Banjo glanced back at the building a second time, resting his hands on his hips. “Ah, yes. You know, I quite liked it when you used that word to describe my shows in one of your articles.” He turned back to the editor. “It has a nice ring to it, so I thought, why not take it and slap it right there in the name? It’s worked wonders so far, I’ll tell you that,” he said with a wink.

Morris adjusted his glasses, raising his chin as he met Banjo’s eyes. “Changing a thing’s name does not change what the thing is, Mr McClintock. You continue to showcase sinful acts that should never see the light of day.”

“Well, Mr Ashley, why don’t you give it a try one of these days and then we’ll talk again, hm?” Banjo winked. Morris’ expression remained unchanged.

After a moment of silence, Morris Ashley tipped his hat and turned on his heel, walking away from the showman with a muttered “Good day, Mr McClintock.” Banjo watched him go, his hands still on his hips and a self-satisfied smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone, tysm for reading! as always please do leave kudos and comments, they are greatly appreciated. two little tidbits of information i think would be fun to share:  
> 1\. positive meanings for zinnias include lasting affection, remembrance, and a reminder to never forget absent friends. also, desert zinnias are native to the USA!  
> 2\. the earliest instances of italian-american mafia activities (as well as other types of gangs) date from the second half of the 1800s!  
> okay thats it, i hope yall are having a great day <3 xx


	6. Scout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holly and Tinsley have a heartfelt conversation over tea.
> 
> Tinsley and Banjo meet for the first time.

“And then he said, ‘they aren’t willing to give you much, except disdain and disgust’.” Banjo impersonated Morris Ashley with a silly voice, his hands gesturing in front of him as he paced back and forth in his office. Fred was sitting by the window. “But you know what? I bet they are.”

“Banjo, they’re snobs. Pompous narcissists, the lot of them,” Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Why are you all of a sudden so interested in this, anyway? You never cared to broaden your shows to those folks.”

“I know. I know, but…“ Banjo pulled a chair and brought it closer to Fred, sitting down in front of the man. “I know, but if I could find a way to attract them, something that would lure them in, make them come to the shows out of their own volition… This could be huge,” he said, his eyes large and round. “It could be really good for the circus.”

Fred pressed his lips in a line, unable to come up with anything of value to add to the conversation. He shrugged and nodded his head slightly, agreeing with Banjo’s train of thought but not exactly sure about it. Banjo saw Fred’s eyes move past him to look towards the door, left ajar by chance by the showman. He turned around to see Fran poking her head in.

“I’m sorry, sir, I was on my way down and overheard you talking and…” She cleared her throat, chuckling nervously. She spoke again, tentatively. “Uh, I was wondering if you’d mind me weighing in.“

“Mind, Francesca?” Banjo laughed, a bright and genuine sound. “Why would I? We’re at a loss for what to do, but you seem to have an idea, so by all means, go right ahead.” He beckoned Fran over to them, turning his chair at an angle so she’d be facing both men. “And please, grab a chair from over there and sit,” he pointed to the other side of the office, where Fred had previously grabbed his own chair from.

Fran’s face lit up. She had become so used to being turned down, turned away, ignored or flat out silenced. She hated it, she hated how ingrained in her reactions this negative energy had become. She hated how it still controlled her, even the smallest amount, despite her efforts to fight it. And she felt relief when Banjo showed interest in what she had to say; she felt part of a whole. So, she took the chance, sank her teeth into it and didn’t let go. And in that moment, Fran promised herself she would never let go of something like this ever again. She had a voice, and voices were made to be used.

Fran picked up the remaining chair and joined the two men by the window. She sat down and brushed her hands over her legs, smoothing down her clothes, before leaving them to rest atop her thighs.

“Well…” Her gaze moved from Banjo to Fred, back and forth every few seconds. “I used to work for a particularly pretentious family,” she started in a lower voice. She raised it back to speaking volume and continued. “And people like them think they know all there is to know about art. They go to the theatre quite often. If you could get an actor or even a playwright to join you, have them endorse the show… Maybe you could get them to follow the lead and come to the shows themselves. They follow trends, you know? I’ve read about it before, and I’ve seen it.” There was a wise undertone to her voice as she spoke. “If someone they admire is doing something new, there’s a good chance they’ll want to try it out for themselves. At that point, if you convinced them that this is something they want to see…“

“We’d be set,” Fred finished Fran’s sentence.

She nodded, a small smile appearing on her lips. “It’s not infallible, but yes, that’s the idea.”

Banjo dropped his gaze down and to the side, deep in thought, lips parted slightly. Then he looked at Fred, his features softening and morphing into his trademark bright smile. There were times where Fran couldn’t help but wonder if there was ever going to be a moment where this man would allow himself to be sad; she hoped that moment would never come. Finally, Banjo looked at Fran, reaching over to clamp a large hand on her shoulder, light but firm, grateful.

“Thank you for your help, Fran. I’m glad you decided to weigh in,” he winked.

Fran spared a glance at the hand resting on her shoulder, feeling it retract to join its twin on their Banjo’s lap, intertwined. She felt the corners of her own lips curve upwards and nodded at the two men. The longer she stayed in the circus, the more Fran felt in her mind, in her heart, in her bones that this was where she was meant to be. “I’m happy to help.”

* * *

Banjo sat on the couch, alone in the parlour of his relatively new home – a manor he’d acquired after business had begun to bloom. The wood in the fireplace cracked and split softly in the background, shielding the entire parlour from the cold that began to frost some of the windows. He sat with his legs crossed in a figure four, an issue of the _New World Gazette_ held in both hands as he casually flipped through the pages. He’d heard about them, a few playwrights that had swiftly made their way up the ranks; that’s what he was looking for. Banjo turned another page and there it was, a photograph of the three of them: Holly Horsley, C. C. Tinsley and Jesse Fear, from left to right. _Francesca’s right, this really could be it_ , Banjo thought. Their influence and the amount of praise they received constantly could send his business soaring up towards the Heavens.

He uncrossed his legs and sat forward, hunching over the newspaper. All three playwrights were smiling, Tinsley’s arms over his colleagues’ shoulders. Fear’s hands were clasped at his front. Holly’s left hand was around Tinsley’s waist and her right was resting on her hip. Banjo observed the photograph. On the one hand, as ready as he was to admit that Ms Horsley piqued his interest ever since he had first heard of her, Banjo was just as unafraid to confess that, unfortunately, a woman wouldn’t be the best call for the job; he’d like to think it wouldn’t somehow backfire, but his gut told him otherwise. On the other hand, the more he looked at Jesse Fear, the less trust the other man inspired within the showman, regardless of how friendly he looked in that photograph. Mr Fear had a British theatre company performing his plays across London – hell, across all of Britain – and thus he always carried himself with an air of superiority and importance. But, even then, Tinsley was still more successful that both Fear and Horsley, and he was also regarded with much more affection. It felt to Banjo like Fear had become but a conceited parasite, leeching off of his friend at every opportunity. Banjo had seen them before, read about them. Fear was always there, in every photograph next to Tinsley, in every article about Tinsley, at every gathering Tinsley went to, wherever Tinsley was. If that wasn’t reason enough not to try his luck with him, Banjo just found Tinsley genuinely more interesting. _A young man with a vision_ , they called him. Quite amusing. And quite promising.

Banjo had always found the theatre world and all that it entailed to be impossibly boring and monotonous. He couldn’t wrap his head around how the young and talented Tinsley could find it remotely appealing; surely, there had to be something more to it. But no matter, Banjo had to focus. If he managed to convince Tinsley to switch sides, and then merge those two sides, the outcome would be glorious. Together, they’d show those haughty folks something the likes of which they had never even dreamed of before.

But first, he had to test the waters. He had to find out when the next performance was going to take place and find Tinsley and discreetly figure out if his arm could be twisted.

* * *

The ever-colder breeze that came with every winter never stopped Tinsley from spending time outside in the gardens, never once in his life. He sat blissfully alone in the gazebo, comfortable in his fur-lined coat, cradling a cup of steaming tea in one hand and holding a book in the other. He heard the rustle of leaves and looked up from his book to watch the Mayor making his way across the gravel path towards the gazebo. The butler stopped at the bottom of the steps that led up to the platform, hands behind his back, as they seemed to be at every second of every day.

“Ms Horsley is in the entrance hall. She’s asked for a word with you.”

“Did she now?”

The Mayor cleared his throat, swallowing afterwards. “…She is just waiting for confirmation that she can see you now.”

Tinsley raised his eyebrows in amusement. “And?” He took a sip of his tea.

The Mayor stifled a smile. “And she already knows she can. As she so frequently does.”

Tinsley nodded, laughing. “Yes, thank you, Mayor. Tell her to come over. And bring me some more tea, would you?”

The butler nodded and turned on his heel, swiftly returning to the manor. He crossed the hallways all the way to the entrance hall where Holly stood, still as a beautifully carved statue. He stopped beside her, extending his arm towards the back of the property.

“He’s outside in the gardens, ma’am. Having tea in the gazebo.”

“Thank you, Mayor.” Holly took a step forward, heading for the doors to the gardens, but stopped before going any further. She whirled around, a graceful movement, and placed a distracted hand on his arm. “I myself would like a cup of tea. With milk, if possible.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Holly made her way across the gardens, following the neat gravel path towards the white, dark-roofed gazebo. Short shrubs lined either side of the path, their deep green backed by the many, many colourful flowers that sprouted from the soil behind them – although Holly could see significantly less colours currently than six months ago. The plants were well looked after, but there were no intricate flower beds, or pots, nor was there any other structure separating the greenery from the path other than the bushes themselves; yet, no plant grew where it shouldn’t and no plant outgrew its peers, spreading to rob them of their place in this world. About halfway through the garden, Holly walked past a natural pond with a wooden bench either side, their iron frames woven into patterns that resembled the gates at the front of the property. If she were asked which part of the gardens was her favourite, she would answer the pond without much thought. In the middle of it stood a marble statue, breathtakingly beautiful in her flowing gown, holding a bouquet of delicately carved roses, frozen in eternal bloom. The statue was one of the few purely man-made or altered aspects of the gardens.

As he heard Holly getting closer, the gravel crunching under her shoes, Tinsley looked up from his book with a smile.

“Isn’t it you who always says a person should never ask for something they already know they can have?” He teased, getting to his feet.

“The Mayor is a gentleman,” Holly began, walking up the steps and extending her hand towards Tinsley. He shook it gently. “He deserves I be courteous towards him.” She waited as he circled the table and pulled out her chair for her. She sat down and smoothed and adjusted her garments and they made it look as though she was floating, sitting on the air itself. Tinsley circled back around to his seat. “If we were talking about your clever self, however, you’d be mistaken to think I would wait for more than five seconds before getting to the matter at hand.” Holly laced her voice with a familiar playfulness, something she wasn’t exactly prone to doing unless in the company of her good friend. For good measure, she waved a hand in the air to feign flippancy.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“I see you haven't lost your fondness for spending winter afternoons out here, despite having a fine parlour with a perfectly working fireplace.”

Tinsley shrugged a shoulder, smiling a lopsided smile. “Old habits die hard.”

She gave a knowing nod. “Speaking of old habits, any reason why you have yet to show me any progress on your latest script? If my memory doesn’t fail me, that is something you’ve always been quite insistent on doing.”

“I have.”

“Yes, that’s true. But that was weeks ago,” she pointed out, her voice soft, her eyes gentle. “You’re struggling again, aren’t you?”

Tinsley hesitated, looking down into his empty cup of tea, as though it held the answers to all of his problems. He took a deep breath, let it out, swallowed. “Nothing fits.”

“Nothing fits?” Holly echoed, prompting him to elaborate.

He looked up from his cup at her, shaking his head. “None of the ideas I get fit each other, or make sense, or are good enough. I keep writing, scrapping what I’ve written, restarting. All the time. Nothing is good enough.” Tinsley sighed. “They wouldn’t like anything I’ve come up with so far.”

Holly sighed herself, taking one of his hands in both of her gloved ones, wordlessly urging him to pay attention to what she was going to say next.

“Tinsley, I know you do what you do to keep their memory alive, but you can’t keep going like this. You can’t, because this is killing you.” She searched his eyes, the bags under them making him look older and wearier, and sadder. “Writing for them and them only is killing you, saving seats for them even though they won’t attend is killing you, staring at those empty seats at the end of every night and hoping to see something that isn’t there anymore is _killing_ you, Tinsley.” Over Tinsley’s shoulder, she noticed the Mayor making his way towards the gazebo. She sighed, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “More than it has already.”

The Mayor walked up the steps that separated the playwrights from the gravel path, placing a cup of tea in front of each of them, one’s liquid considerably more translucent than the other’s. They thanked him and he excused himself with a bow.

Holly stood up, picking up her cup. “Walk with me.”

Tinsley threw her a puzzled look but got to his feet regardless. One of the few truths he knew was that Holly Horsley never did anything by chance. He followed her out of the gazebo and onto the path. They walked in silence for a little while, until they were almost at the pond.

Holly took a sip of her tea. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?”

“Occasionally.”

“My father died when my brother and I were very little.”

“My condolences.”

Holly nodded in thanks. She resumed, “And I remember it all too well. Like it was yesterday, really. Henry and I were just starting to understand the world around us, and to have to go through something as heavy as that… It was hard. It was hard for all of us.” They reached the pond and sat down on one of the benches, sipping their respective teas. “In all my life, I’ve never seen somebody mourn like my mother did.”

Tinsley turned his head to face his friend, lifting his cup up to his lips, waiting for Holly to keep going. Holly observed the statue, static in the dead centre of the pond, like she hadn’t seen it countless times before.

“When we got older, my mother told us what father said before he died. Do you want to know what he told her?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tinsley nod his head. She took a relaxed sip, taking her time, then lowered the cup and its saucer all the way down to rest atop her lap. “My mother was sitting beside his bed, holding his left hand in both of hers; she’d always felt like it was the closest she could ever get to physically holding her dearest’s heart. She was holding onto him, and she was crying. My father cupped her face with his free hand, wiped a tear away.”

Holly didn’t make a habit out of sharing memories, feelings, most things, really. So Tinsley remained silent, afraid to utter a word, afraid to even breathe, lest he shattered the solemn atmosphere that had befallen them. He knew the story she was recounting was important, and he was intent on listening through to the end. So, he listened.

“Then, he said with a smile, ‘My most favourite painting we own is the one we have downstairs, did you know? The one where we’re on a boat, surrounded by flowers and clear water and a bright blue sky. Which is quite odd, I’ve come to notice, because it depicts a lie. We’ve never been on a boat.’ In that moment, my mother smiled. She chuckled, genuinely, at his levity even in death.” Holly went quiet, and for a long moment she didn’t speak. “She felt his hands slip away from her and fall onto the bed. When she looked at him, he looked peaceful, almost satisfied. And in that moment, my mother made a decision.”

“What was the decision?” Tinsley asked, as softly as he could manage.

“She decided that she wouldn’t spend her days crying, or moping, nor would she allow the memory of him to sadden her, or hold her down, or hold her back.” Holly nodded, a distracted gesture, but still somehow firm and certain as she always was. “The last thing my father did on this Earth was make his wife smile. She’d be damned if she was ever going to let go of that.”

“She sounds like a wise lady.”

Holly finished her tea before speaking. “She was. And she was thoughtful, and she was clever, and kind, and lively, and she looked beautiful all the time. She was charming. I see her eyes every time I look in Henry’s; they have the same shade, the same shape. I know he sees it too.” The hint of a smile played on her lips as she remembered her brother.

As if in quasi-perfect sync, they stood up from the wooden bench mere milliseconds apart. They moved away from the bench and the pond and the statue, starting towards the manor. They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Tinsley pierced through it; Holly had used so many positive adjectives to describe her mother, but if the love of her life had died, then where had all the sadness gone? Surely, she’d felt it, right?

“You described your mother so brightly, she sounds so lovely…”

“Thank you.”

“But where did her sorrow fit into? She was grieving, wasn’t she?”

As the words left his mouth, Tinsley hoped Holly wouldn’t take offense to them. But then again, who was he trying to fool? He wasn’t a threat; he knew Holly’s first reaction would be to accept his questions as simple curiosity. Which, fortunately, was the truth.

“Oh, she was,” Holly confirmed with a nod. “And she handled grief with a degree of grace I hadn’t thought possible to possess, let alone display.” The playwrights reached the house and stepped inside, subconsciously taking the necessary turns and stairs towards the parlour. “Over time, our craft has reminded me of a very important lesson.” Holly used her free hand to lift up the ends of her skirt so that she wouldn’t trip while taking the stairs. “There’s a melancholic sense of beauty tied to tragedy, Tinsley. We feel drawn to it, we surrender to it. But the other side of the coin spells the pursuit of happiness in the face of adversity and it shows how greatly those who choose it are rewarded.” Holly smiled a small smile. “And I _did_ tell you my mother looked beautiful all the time.”

“You did,” Tinsley replied, although it hadn’t been a question. They slowed to a halt by the parlour’s doorway.

“She didn’t just _look_ beautiful.” Holly held the empty cup and saucer in one hand and held out the other. Tinsley gave her a look of slight confusion but still complied, placing his hand in hers. Holly raised their hands and put them up against where Tinsley’s heart beat behind his ribs, moving her hand around his to make sure his palm was pressed to his own chest. “She _was_ beautiful.”

Tinsley was admittedly caught off-guard, lips going slightly agape. He’d always known Holly Horsley was genuine and good, but now more than ever he was certain she had inherited just as much from her mother as her brother had. He just nodded, positively dumbstruck.

Holly smiled up at him, taking his cup and saucer from his hand. “Could you show me what you’ve written so far, even what you’ve deemed unsuitable? I would like to see it.”

“Uh, yes, I suppose that wouldn’t hurt too much. Please,” he extended an arm into the parlour, a gesture meant to tell Holly to make herself comfortable. “I’ll be right back.”

Tinsley made his way to the study to retrieve his scripts, Holly’s words echoing in the back of his mind.

* * *

After a quick toe-dip into the local cultural program, Banjo learned when the next performance of Mr Jesse Fear’s “From Above” was going to take place. He arrived at the theatre halfway through the performance. And he knew this; his plan was to wait for it to be over, wait for Tinsley to leave the building, and approach him then. He stopped by the entrance, pushed his scarf snug against his neck and slid his cooling hands into the pockets of his winter coat. Across the street, a tall figure stood on a bridge arching over the narrow canal that stretched through the middle of town. Banjo’s instinct told him that that was the man he was looking for.

Banjo strolled in the direction of the bridge, coming to a stop beside the younger man, casual. He was leaning on the railing, the weight of his torso on his forearms. His hands were draped one over the other as he watched the ripples in the canal’s dark water distort the reflection of the moon, shining bright up in the sky above their heads. He turned his head upon hearing his name.

“Mr Tinsley! What could possibly have you out here by yourself while such fine art is being displayed inside the theatre?” Banjo knew perfectly well the actors were still performing inside the theatre, and this knowledge was clear in his voice, but he decided to try and mask it with feigned innocence anyway. “Or am I wrong and the play has already ended?”

“You’re far from wrong, it’s true that the play is still going. Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of it, unfortunately,” Tinsley confessed, straightening up to face the other man more directly. “Besides, I needed some air. But if it’s a refund you’re looking for, you’ll have to wait until the end,” he joked.

Tinsley stood taller than Banjo, and slimmer too. His thick and healthy head of hair and his downturned eyes shared the same light shade of brown; the latter held a kindness to them and the tiniest of sparks, something that Banjo felt wasn’t reflected in his art with the fairness it was due. He smiled and extended his hand for Tinsley to shake.

“Benjamin McClintock.”

“Oh, from the circus?”

“That’s right. Honoured to make your acquaintance.”

Despite the cold, his hand was shaken with strangely casual vigour, if such a thing was possible. And it was possible when it came to this man, apparently. Behind a bushy moustache, his features had regained a neutral look, but he was capable of smiling with only his eyes. His calm, almost unbothered demeanour seemed to give off some sort of harmlessness that made Tinsley think twice before putting up his defenses; in fact, he realised that he felt at ease in the presence of the older man.

“Please, Mr McClintock, I’m no monarch.” Tinsley went back to leaning on his forearms on the iron railing. “You know, I have to admit I’m fascinated.”

Banjo’s eyebrows perked up, but he managed to stop the movement before they went too high, not wanting to look too excited about this promising development. “Is that so?”

“It is. I’m fascinated by your courage to dive into such a… bold business path.”

Banjo leaned on the railing next to Tinsley. “Well, what is life made of, if not taking risks? And it pays off, you know.”

“I’m sure it does. I’ve seen the people file into your shows the same way nails fly towards a magnet.”

“The smiles, Mr Tinsley. It pays off to see the smiles.” Banjo flashed Tinsley his own charming smile once again, and this time it didn’t fade away from his features.

Seemingly taken aback by his new acquaintance’s statement, Tinsley straightened up and reached into one of his pockets and pulled out his pocket watch. After sparing the timepiece a fleeting glance, he shoved it back into its pocket quite hastily. He tugged at his coat, smoothing it down afterwards.

“I’d love to stay and chat a bit more, Mr McClintock, but as it turns out I have to be home soon. I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me.”

“Of course, my friend.” Banjo chuckled at the other man’s swift change of behaviour. One second serene and relaxed, the next tense and tight. What a curious fellow. “Far be it from me to become a hindrance.”

Tinsley gave Banjo a curt nod in lieu of a vocal goodbye and turned on his heel and left, heading back towards the theatre where carriages awaited. Banjo watched him go, still leaning on the railing, a smirk on his face. He was going to reel this big fish in, he could feel it in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!! i hope youre enjoying the story!  
> sorry for the lack of ricky on this one, but take comfort in knowing our bois will meet soon!  
> as always, kudos and comments are immensely appreciated! lmk your thots, i love hearing them! xx


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